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'  EXLIBRE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA-^ 


JOHN  HENRY  NASH  LIBRARY 

SAN  FRANCISCO 

PRESENTED  TO  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

ROBERT  GORDON  SPROUL,  PRESIDENT. 


MR.ANDMR$.MILTON  S.RAV 

CECILY,  VIRGINIA  AND  ROSALYN  RAY 


RAY  OIL  BURNER  COMPANY 


THE  ABBEY  CLASSICS 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUN- 
FAL  BY  JAMES  RUSSELL 
LOWELL  if  it  if  if 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 
WALTER  TAYLOR  FIELD 


i  mini 


PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 
SAN  FRANCISCO  AND  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1907,  BY 
WALTER  TAYLOR  FIELD 


LOWELL  AND  THE  VISION 
OF  SIR  LAUNFAL 

HE  year  eighteen  hundred  forty-eight 
marked  the  high  tide  of  Lowell's  literary 
enthusiasm.  He  was  in  the  full  vigor  of 
young  manhood— twenty- nine  years  old, 
and  had  been  married  four  years  to  a  wife  whose 
sympathy  inspired  high  ideals  and  stimulated 
him  to  large  endeavor.  But  until  this  time  he 
had  not  found  himself.  He  had  tried  the  law 
and  had  given  it  up;  he  had  started  a  literary 
journal,  The  Pioneer,  and  it  had  failed;  he  had 
thrown  himself  into  the  pursuit  of  letters  with  all 
a  young  man's  ardor,  but  had  thus  far  done  noth 
ing  to  justify  his  choice. 

In  this  year,  eighteen  hundred  forty-eight, 
however,  he  wrote  four  poems  which  immedi 
ately  established  his  fame.  They  were  the  First 
Series  of  the  Biglow  Papers,  A  Fable  for  Critics, 
The  Present  Crisis,  and  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal. 


The  last  of  the  four  is,  on  the  whole,  the  most 
thoroughly  representative,  though  the  first  shows 
more  originality  and  presents  a  more  striking 
phase  of  Lowell's  genius. 

The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal  was  written  out  of 
a  full  heart  and  completed,  practically  as  it  now 
stands,  in  forty-eight  hours.  Soon  after  it  appeared 
Lowell  wrote  to  his  friend  Briggs: 

"  Last  night  I  walked  to  Watertown  over  the 
snow,  with  the  new  moon  before  me  and  a  sky 
exactly  like  that  in  Page's  evening  landscape. 
Orion  was  rising  behind  me,  and  as  I  stood  on 
the  hill  just  before  you  enter  the  village,  the  still 
ness  of  the  fields  around  me  was  delicious,  broken 
only  by  the  tinkle  of  a  little  brook  which  runs  too 
swiftly  for  Frost  to  catch  it.  My  picture  of  the 
brook  in  Sir  Launfal  was  drawn  from  it.  But  why 
do  I  send  you  this  description — like  the  bones  of 
a  chicken  I  had  picked  ?  Simply  because  I  was 
so  happy,  as  I  stood  there,  and  felt  so  sure  of 
doing  something  that  would  justify  my  friends." 

The  poem  is  set  in  two  landscapes  represent 
ing  June  and  December,  which  symbolize  two 


periods  of  Sir  Launfal's  life,—  the  first,  buoyant 
youth,  in  which  he  sets  forth  on  the  quest  of  the 
Grail;  the  second,  wasted  old  age,  in  which  he 
returns  disappointed  and  humbled.  Each  of  the 
two  pictures  contains  also  a  contrasting  note 
which  has  its  symbolism  in  Sir  Launfal's  inward, 
spiritual  state.  The  June  sunshine  beats  in  vain 
upon  the  cold  wall  of  Sir  Launfal's  castle,  and  the 
springtime  of  youth  avails  not  to  warm  into  human 
sympathy  the  pride  of  Sir  Launfal's  heart.  He 
tosses  a  piece  of  gold  to  the  leper  at  the  gate,  but 
he  has  no  thought  of  pity  or  of  brotherhood. 

The  winter  scene  finds  its  touch  of  contrast  in 
the  Christmas  cheer  which  streams  out  from  the 
castle  windows  into  the  cold  of  the  Christmas 
night,  and  in  the  human  love  which  glorifies  the 
forlorn  old  age  of  the  returning  wanderer  as  he 
shares  his  last  crust  with  the  leper  and  fills  for 
him  a  wooden  bowl  with  water  from  the  brook. 

We  have,  thus,  two  pictures,  two  stages  of 
life,  two  spiritual  conditions,  two  moral  lessons — 
for  in  the  first  scene  the  leper  spurns  the  gold 
without  the  human  touch,  while  in  the  second 


he  receives  and  is  strengthened  by  the  crust  and 
the  drink  of  water  given  in  love  and  sympathy. 
At  this  point  the  moral  lesson  merges  into  a  reli 
gious  lesson ;  the  leper,  glorified,  stands  before  Sir 
Launfal  in  the  image  of  the  Christ,  and  the 
wooden  bowl  glows  with  supernal  radiance; — 
it  is  seen  to  be  the  Grail. 

The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal  illustrates  three  of 
Lowell's  strongest  characteristics;  his  kinship  with 
nature,  his  wide  humanity  and  his  moral  force. 
He  was  a  passionate  lover  of  the  woods,  the  fields, 
the  birds  and  the  sunshine.  He  says  in  one  of 
of  his  letters,  "How  I  do  love  the  earth!  I  feel  it 
thrill  under  my  feet.  I  feel  as  if  it  were  conscious 
of  my  love, —  as  if  something  passed  into  my 
dancing  blood  from  it." 

His  love  for  nature  was  equalled  by  his  love 
for  his  fellow-man.  Though  reared  amidst  aristo 
cratic  influences,  he  always  remained  a  democrat 
at  heart.  In  his  eyes  it  was  fitting  not  only  that 
Sir  Launfal  should  break  bread  with  the  leper, 
but  that  Christ,  himself,  should  appear  in  this 


vagrant  outcast,  proclaiming  the  mysterious  kin 
ship  between  the  human  and  the  divine. 

It  was,  however,  as  a  moralist  that  Lowell 
made,  perhaps,  his  deepest  impress  on  the  thought 
of  his  age.  Descended  from  a  line  of  ancestors 
who  embodied  the  New  England  conscience,  he 
placed  morality  above  art  and  never  hesitated 
when  the  choice  lay  between  them.  Doubtless 
if  he  had  been  less  persistent  as  a  preacher,  he 
\vould  have  taken  higher  rank  as  a  poet.  That 
he  realized  this,  is  seen  by  his  jocular  reference 
to  himself  in  A  Fable  for  Critics : 

"The  top  of  the  hill  he  will  ne'er  come  nigh  reaching 
Till  he  learns  the  distinction  t'vvixt  singing  and  preaching." 

But  it  is,  after  all,  somewhat  better  to  do  good 
than  to  write  prettily,  and  the  world  has  need  of 
more  such  poets. 

Two  noteworthy  qualities  of  Lowell,  and  only 
two,  are  absent  in  Sir  Launfal, — humor  and  patriot 
ism.  Lowell's  humor  was  genuine  and  rollicking, 
—  so  rollicking  that  Thackeray,  upon  reading  the 
Biglow  Papers,  declared  their  author  had  a  greater 


genius  for  comedy  than  any  English  poet  ever  had, 
and  regretted  that  he  should  attempt  serious  verse. 
His  patriotism  was  deep  and  all-embracing.  It 
was  not  merely  a  sentiment,  it  was  a  passion. 
Whether  in  his  New  England  home  at  Cam 
bridge,  or  on  the  anti- slavery  lecture  platform 
before  the  war,  or  as  the  representative  of  his 
nation  at  the  Court  of  St.  James,  he  was  always 
an  American  and  always  proud  of  it. 

Taken  in  the  large,  the  impression  of  Lowell 
that  remains  with  us  when  all  specific  attributes 
have  become  blurred,  is  that  of  his  manliness. 
There  was  in  his  personality  and  is  in  his  poems 
a  virility  that  is  one  of  the  finest  products  of  our 
free  American  life.  And  though  his  soul  was  full 
of  visions,  he  seemed,  Antaeus-like,  to  derive  his 
strength  from  contact  with  the  earth.  He  was  not 
a  good  verse-maker.  Rhyming  came  easily  to  him, 
but  he  was  too  often  careless  of  form,  and  pre 
ferred  a  strong  expression  to  a  poetical  one.  That 
he  has  left  us  several  almost  perfect  bits  of  poetic 
craftsmanship  shows  what  he  could  do  when  he 
chose,  but  he  did  not  always  choose.  He  trusted 


to  inspiration,  and  it  often  brought  him  ideas 
clothed  in  the  happiest  phrases ;  often  it  brought 
only  the  naked  thought,  which  he  made  shift  to 
dress  in  such  words  as  came  first  to  hand. 

We  naturally  associate  Lowell  with  Longfel 
low  and  Holmes,  those  two  other  Cambridge 
poets  who  represent  culture,  scholarship  and  the 
university  spirit.  The  environment  of  all  three 
was  the  same,  the  influences  which  wrought  upon 
them  were  similar;  yet,  in  feeling,  Lowell  was  more 
closely  allied  to  the  homespun  Whittier,— for  he 
was,  above  all  else,  a  reformer  and  a  preacher  of 
righteousness. 

He  lacked  Longfellow's  fine  sense  of  rhythm, 
but  he  wrote  with  a  stronger  hand;  he  did  not 
have  Longfellow's  exquisite  taste  in  the  choice  of 
words  and  figures,  and  he  sometimes  made  mis 
takes,  but  he  always  had  a  message,  while  Long 
fellow  often  wrote  to  express  a  mood;  both  were 
true  poets,  but  Longfellow  was  the  greater  artist, 
Lowell  the  more  original  thinker.  Longfellow's 
verse  is  like  a  peaceful  river,  winding  between 
banks  of  sunny  verdure ;  Lowell's  is  a  mountain 


stream,  impetuous,  now  rolling  headlong  over 
itself,  and  again  quiet,  as  it  gathers  momentum  for 
another  rush. 

The  personalities  of  the  two  poets  as  revealed 
in  their  works  as  well  as  in  their  lives  were  also 
widely  different.  Both  were  polished,  but  Long 
fellow  was  like  the  polished  marble,  pure,  delicate, 
fine-grained,  while  Lowell  was  the  granite  of  his 
native  New  England  hills,  coarser  in  texture  and 
made  up  of  heterogeneous  elements, —  less  beau 
tiful,  perhaps,  and  less  perfect,  but  more  truly 
representative  of  our  American  thought  and  life. 

WALTER  TAYLOR  FIELD. 


10 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL 


PRELUDE  TO  PART  FIRST 

LVER  his  keys  the  musing  organist, 

Beginning  doubtfully  and  far  away, 
First  lets  his  fingers  wander  as  they  list, 
And  builds  a  bridge  from  Dreamland  for  his  lay: 
Then,  as  the  touch  of  his  loved  intrument 

Gives  hope  and  fervor,  nearer  draws  his  theme, 
First  guessed  by  faint  auroral  flushes  sent 
Along  the  wavering  vista  of  his  dream. 


Not  only  around  our  infancy 
Doth  heaven  with  all  its  splendors  lie; 
Daily,  with  souls  that  cringe  and  plot, 
We  Sinais  climb  and  know  it  not. 


11 


Over  our  manhood  bend  the  skies; 

Against  our  fallen  and  traitor  lives 
The  great  winds  utter  prophecies ; 

With  our  faint  hearts  the  mountain  strives ; 
Its  arms  outstretched,  the  druid  wood 

Waits  with  its  benedicite ; 
And  to  our  age's  drowsy  blood 

Still  shouts  the  inspiring  sea. 

Earth  gets  its  price  for  what  Earth  gives  us ; 

The  beggar  is  taxed  for  a  corner  to  die  in, 
The  priest  hath  his  fee  who  comes  and  shrives  us, 

We  bargain  for  the  graves  we  lie  in; 
At  the  Devil's  booth  are  all  things  sold, 
Each  ounce  of  dross  costs  its  ounce  of  gold ; 

For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay, 
Bubbles  we  buy  with  a  whole  soul's  tasking: 

Tis  heaven  alone  that  is  given  away, 
'Tis  only  God  may  be  had  for  the  asking; 

12 


No  price  is  set  on  the  lavish  summer; 
June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer. 

And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days ; 
Then  Heaven  tries  earth  if  it  be  in  tune, 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays : 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers, 
And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers; 
The  flush  of  light  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys ; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green, 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice, 
And  there's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

13 


Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sings; 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest,  - 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best? 

Now  is  the  high-tide  of  the  year, 

And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away 
Comes  flooding  back  with  a  ripply  cheer 

Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay; 
Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it, 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  wills  it; 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been, 
Tis  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are  green; 
We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  right  well 
How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms  swell; 
We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help 
knowing 

14 


That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  growing; 
The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear 
That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near, 

That  maize  has  sprouted,    that    streams  are 

flowing, 

That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky, 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard  by; 
And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back, 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack ; 

We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's  lowing,— 
And  hark!  how  clear  bold  chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year, 

Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing! 

Joy  comes,  grief  goes,  we  know  not  how; 
Everything  is  happy  now, 

Everything  is  upward  striving; 
Tis  as  easy  now  for  the  heart  to  be  true 
As  for  grass  to  be  green  or  skies  to  be  blue,— 

Tis  the  natural  way  of  living: 

15 


Who  knows  whither  the  clouds  have  fled  ? 

In  the  unscarred  heaven  they  leave  no  wake; 
And  the  eyes  forget  the  tears  they  have  shed, 

The  heart  forgets  its  sorrow  and  ache ; 
The  soul  partakes  the  season's  youth, 

And  the  sulphurous  rifts  of  passion  and  woe 
Lie  deep  'neath  a  silence  pure  and  smooth, 

Like  burnt-out  craters  healed  with  snow. 
What  wonder  if  Sir  Launfal  now 
Remembered  the  keeping  of  his  vow? 


16 


PART  FIRST 
i 

Y  golden  spurs  now  bring  to  me, 

And  bring  to  me  my  richest  mail, 
For  to-morrow  I  go  over  land  and  sea 
In  search  of  the  Holy  Grail; 
Shall  never  a  bed  for  me  be  spread, 
Nor  shall  a  pillow  be  under  my  head, 
Till  I  begin  my  vow  to  keep; 
Here  on  the  rushes  will  I  sleep, 
And  perchance  there  may  come  a  vision  true 
Ere  day  create  the  world  anew." 
Slowly  Sir  Launfal's  eyes  grew  dim, 
Slumber  fell  like  a  cloud  on  him, 
And  into  his  soul  the  vision  flew. 

II 

The  crows  flapped  over  by  twos  and  threes, 
In  the  pool  drowsed  the  cattle  up  to  their  knees' 

17 


The  little  birds  sang  as  if  it  were 
The  one  day  of  summer  in  all  the  year, 
And  the  very  leaves  seemed  to  sing  on  the  trees: 
The  castle  alone  in  the  landscape  lay 
Like  an  outpost  of  winter,  dull  and  gray; 
Twas  the  proudest  hall  in  the  North  Countree, 
And  never  its  gates  might  opened  be, 
Save  to  lord  or  lady  of  high  degree; 
Summer  besieged  it  on  every  side, 
But  the  churlish  stone  her  assaults  defied; 
She  could  not  scale  the  chilly  wall, 
Though  around  it  for  leagues  her  pavilions  tall 
Stretched  left  and  right, 
Over  the  hills  and  out  of  sight; 
Green  and  broad  was  every  tent, 
And  out  of  each  a  murmur  went 
Till  the  breeze  fell  off  at  night. 

Ill 

The  drawbridge  dropped  with  a  surly  clang, 
And  through  the  dark  arch  a  charger  sprang, 

18 


Bearing  Sir  Launfal,  the  maiden  knight, 
In  his  gilded  mail,  that  flamed  so  bright 
It  seemed  the  dark  castle  had  gathered  all 
Those  shafts  the  fierce  sun  had  shot  over  its  wall 

In  his  siege  of  three  hundred  summers  long, 
And,  binding  them  all  in  one  blazing  sheaf, 

Had  cast  them  forth :  so,  young  and  strong, 
And  lightsome  as  a  locust-leaf, 
Sir  Launfal  flashed  forth  in  his  unscarred  mail, 
To  seek  in  all  climes  for  the  Holy  Grail. 

IV 
It  was  morning  on  hill  and  stream  and  tree, 

And  morning  in  the  young  knight's  heart; 
Only  the  castle  moodily 
Rebuffed  the  gifts  of  the  sunshine  free, 

And  gloomed  by  itself  apart; 
The  season  brimmed  all  other  things  up 
Full  as  the  rain  fills  the  pitcher-plant's  cup. 


18 


V 

As  Sir  Launfal  made  morn  through  the  darksome 
gate, 

He  was  'ware  of  a  leper,  crouched  by  the  same, 
Who  begged  with  his  hand  and  moaned  as  he 
sate; 

And  a  loathing  over  Sir  Launfal  came; 
The  sunshine  went  out  of  his  soul  with  a  thrill, 

The  flesh  'neath  his  armor  'gan  shrink  and 

crawl, 
Arid  midway  its  leap  his  heart  stood  still 

Like  a  frozen  waterfall; 
For  this  man,  so  foul  and  bent  ot  stature, 
Rasped  harshly  against  his  dainty  nature, 
And  seemed  the  one  blot  on  the  summer  morn,— 
So  he  tossed  him  a  piece  of  gold  in  scorn. 

VI 

The  leper  raised  not  the  gold  from  the  dust: 
"Better  to  me  the  poor  man's  crust, 

20 


Better  the  blessing  of  the  poor, 
Though  I  turn  me  empty  from  his  door ; 
That  is  no  true  alms  which  the  hand  can  hold; 
He  gives  nothing  but  worthless  gold 

Who  gives  from  a  sense  of  duty; 
But  he  who  gives  a  slender  mite, 
And  gives  to  that  which  is  out  of  sight, 

That  thread  of  the  all-sustaining  Beauty 
Which  runs  through  all  and  doth  all  unite,— 
The  hand  cannot  clasp  the  whole  of  his  alms, 
The  heart  outstretches  its  eager  palms, 
For  a  god  goes  with  it  and  makes  it  store 
To  the  soul  that  was  starving  in  darkness  before." 


21 


PRELUDE  TO  PART  SECOND 

kOWN    swept    the   chill  wind  from  the 

mountain  peak; 
From  the  snow  five  thousand  summers 

old; 
On  open  wold  and  hill-top  bleak 

It  had  gathered  all  the  cold, 
And  whirled  it  like  sleet  on  the  wanderer's  cheek; 
It  carried  a  shiver  everywhere 
From  the  unleafed  boughs  and  pastures  bare; 
The  little  brook  heard  it  and  built  a  roof 
'Neath  which  he  could  house  him,  winter-proof ; 
All  night  by  the  white  stars'  frosty  gleams 
He  groined  his  arches  and  matched  his  beams ; 
Slender  and  clear  were  his  crystal  spars 
As  the  lashes  of  light  that  trim  the  stars : 

22 


He  sculptured  every  summer  delight 
In  his  halls  and  chambers  out  of  sight; 
Sometimes  his  tinkling  waters  slipt 
Down  through  a  frost-leaved  forest-crypt, 
Long  sparkling  aisles  of  steel-stemmed  trees 
Bending  to  counterfeit  a  breeze; 
Sometimes  the  roof  no  fretwork  knew 
But  silvery  mosses  that  downward  grew; 
Sometimes  it  was  carved  in  sharp  relief 
With  quaint  arabesques  of  ice-fern  leaf; 
Sometimes  it  was  simply  smooth  and  clear 
For  the  gladness  of  heaven  to  shine  through,  and 

here 

He  had  caught  the  nodding  bullrush-tops 
And  hung  them  thickly  with  diamond  drops, 
That  crystalled  the  beams  of  moon  and  sun, 
And  made  a  star  of  every  one : 
No  mortal  builder's  most  rare  device 
Could  match  this  winter-palace  of  ice; 
Twas  as  if  every  image  that  mirrored  lay 

23 


In  his  depths  serene  through  the  summer  day, 
Each  fleeting  shadow  of  earth  and  sky, 

Lest  the  happy  model  should  be  lost, 
Had  been  mimicked  in  fairy  masonry 

By  the  elfin  builders  of  the  frost. 

Within  the  hall  are  song  and  laughter, 

The  cheeks  of  Christmas  glow  red  and  jolly, 
And  sprouting  is  every  corbel  and  rafter 

With  lightsome  green  of  ivy  and  holly; 
Through  the  deep  gulf  of  the  chimney  wide 
Wallows  the  Yule-log's  roaring  tide ; 
The  broad  flame-pennons  droop  and  flap 

And  belly  and  tug  as  a  flag  in  the  wind ; 
Like  a  locust  shrills  the  imprisoned  sap, 

Hunted  to  death  in  its  galleries  blind; 
And  swift  little  troops  of  silent  sparks, 

Now  pausing,  now  scattering  away  as  in  fear, 
Go  threading  the  soot-forest's  tangled  darks 

Like  herds  of  startled  deer. 

24 


But  the  wind  without  was  eager  and  sharp, 
Of  Sir  Launfal's  gray  hair  it  makes  a  harp, 
And  rattles  and  wrings 
The  icy  strings, 
Singing  in  dreary  monotone, 
A  Christmas  carol  of  its  own, 
Whose  burden  still,  as  he  might  guess, 
Was  — "  Shelterless,  shelterless,  shelterless ! " 
The  voice  of  the  seneschal  flared  like  a  torch 
As  he  shouted  the  wanderer  away  from  the  porch, 
And  he  sat  in  the  gateway  and  saw  all  night 
The  great  hall-fire,  so  cheery  and  bold, 
Through  the  window- slits  of  the  castle  old, 
Build  out  its  piers  of  ruddy  light 
Against  the  drift  of  the  cold. 


25 


PART  SECOND 


HERE  was  never  a  leaf  on  bush  or  tree, 
The  bare  boughs  rattled  shudderingly; 
The  river  was  dumb  and  could  not  speak, 
For  the  frost's  swift  shuttles  its  shroud  had  spun; 
A  single  crow  on  the  tree-top  bleak 

From  his  shining  feathers  shed  off  the  cold  sun; 
Again  it  was  morning,  but  shrunk  and  cold, 
As  if  her  veins  were  sapless  and  old, 
And  she  rose  up  decrepitly 
For  a  last  dim  look  at  earth  and  sea. 

II 

Sir  Launfal  turned  from  his  own  hard  gate, 
For  another  heir  in  his  earldom  sate ; 

26 


An  old,  bent  man,  worn  out  and  frail, 

He  came  back  from  seeking  the  Holy  Grail ; 

Little  he  recked  of  his  earldom's  loss, 

No  more  on  his  surcoat  was  blazoned  the  cross, 

But  deep  in  his  soul  the  sign  he  wore, 

The  badge  of  the  suffering  and  the  poor. 

Ill 

Sir  Launfal's  raiment  thin  and  spare 
Was  idle  mail  'gainst  the  barbed  air, 
For  it  was  just  at  the  Christmas  time; 
So  he  mused,  as  he  sat,  of  a  sunnier  clime, 
And  sought  for  a  shelter  from  cold  and  snow 
In  the  light  and  warmth  of  long  ago; 
He  sees  the  snake-like  caravan  crawl 
O'er  the  edge  of  the  desert,  black  and  small, 
Then  nearer  and  nearer,  till,  one  by  one, 
He  can  count  the  camels  in  the  sun, 
As  over  the  red-hot  sands  they  pass 
To  where,  in  its  slender  necklace  of  grass, 

27 


The  little  spring  laughed  and  leapt  in  the  shade, 
And  with  its  own  self  like  an  infant  played, 
And  waved  its  signal  of  palms. 

IV 

"For  Christ's  sweet  sake,  I  beg  an  alms; " — 
The  happy  camels  may  reach  the  spring 
But  Sir  Launfal  sees  naught  save  the  grewsome 

thing, 

The  leper,  lank  as  the  rain- blanched  bone, 
That  cowers  beside  him,  a  thing  as  lone 
And  white  as  the  ice-isles  of  Northern  seas 
In  the  desolate  horror  of  his  disease. 

V 

And  Sir  Launfal  said,— "I  behold  in  thee 
An  image  of  Him  who  died  on  the  tree ; 
Thou  also  hast  had  thy  crown  of  thorns,— 
Thou  also  hast    had    the   world's    buffets    and 
scorns, — 

28 


And  to  thy  life  were  not  denied 
The  wounds  in  the  hands  and  feet  and  side; 
Mild  Mary's  Son,  acknowledge  me; 
Behold,  through  him,  I  give  to  thee !  " 

VI 
Then  the  soul  of  the  leper  stood  up  in  his  eyes 

And  looked  at  Sir  Launfal,  and  straightway  he 
Remembered  in  what  a  haughtier  guise 

He  had  flung  an  alms  to  leprosie, 
When  he  caged  his  young  life  up  in  gilded  mail 
And  set  forth  in  search  of  the  Holy  Grail. 
The  heart  within  him  was  ashes  and  dust; 
He  parted  in  twain  his  single  crust, 
He  broke  the  ice  on  the  streamlet's  brink, 
And  gave  the  leper  to  eat  and  drink ; 
Twas  a  mouldy  crust  of  coarse  brown  bread, 

'Twas  water  out  of  a  wooden  bowl, — 
Yet  with  fine  wheaten  bread  was  the  leper  fed, 

And  'twas  red  wine  he  drank  with  his  thirsty 

soul. 

29 


VII 

As  Sir  Launfal  mused  with  a  downcast  face, 
A  light  shone  round  about  the  place; 
The  leper  no  longer  crouched  at  his  side, 
But  stood  before  him  glorified, 
Shining  and  tall  and  fair  and  straight 
As  the  pillar  that  stood  by  the  Beautiful  Gate, 
Himself  the  Gate  whereby  men  can 
Enter  the  temple  of  God  in  Man. 

VIII 
His  words  were  shed  softer  than  leaves  from  the 

pine, 

And  they  fell  on  Sir  Launfal  as  snows  on  the  brine, 
That  mingle  their  softness  and  quiet  in  one 
With  the  shaggy  unrest  they  float  down  upon; 
And  the  voice  that  was  calmer  than  silence  said, 
"Lo,  it  is  I,  be  not  afraid ! 
In  many  climes,  without  avail, 
Thou  hast  spent  thy  life  for  the  Holy  Grail ; 

30 


Behold,  it  is  here, — this  cup  which  thou 
Didst  fill  at  the  streamlet  for  me  but  now; 
This  crust  is  my  body  broken  for  thee, 
This  water  His  blood  that  died  on  the  tree : 
The  Holy  Supper  is  kept,  indeed, 
In  whatso  we  share  with  another's  need ; 
Not  what  we  give,  but  what  we  share, 
For  the  gift  without  the  giver  is  bare ; 
Who  gives  himself  with  his  alms  feeds  three,- 
Himself,  his  hungering  neighbor,  and  me." 

IX 

Sir  Launfal  awoke  as  from  a  swound: — 
"The  Grail  in  my  castle  here  is  found! 
Hang  my  idle  armor  up  on  the  wall, 
Let  it  be  the  spider's  banquet-hall; 
He  must  be  fenced  with  stronger  mail 
Who  would  seek  and  find  the  Holy  Grail." 


31 


X 

The  castle  gate  stands  open  now, 

And  the  wanderer  is  welcome  to  the  hall 
As  the  hangbird  is  to  the  elm-tree  bough ; 

No  longer  scowl  the  turrets  tall, 
The  Summer's  long  siege  at  last  is  o'er; 
When  the  first  poor  outcast  went  in  at  the  door, 
She  entered  with  him  in  disguise, 
And  mastered  the  fortress  by  surprise ; 
There  is  no  spot  she  loves  so  well  on  ground, 
She  lingers  and  smiles  there   the  whole   year 

round ; 

The  meanest  serf  on  Sir  Launfal's  land 
Has  hall  and  bower  at  his  command; 
And  there's  no  poor  man  in  the  North  Countree 
But  is  lord  of  the  earldom  as  much  as  he. 


32 


V\ 


